


Warrior *Vikings*

by TheLadyAranel



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9724280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyAranel/pseuds/TheLadyAranel
Summary: The second raid on Northumbria, the English did not offer a chain to Rollo as a gesture of good faith, but a young Scottish Highlander with hair the color of fire. The Northmen are convinced she has been touched by their own auburn haired god Thor and she is taken back as a sign from the gods to the Earl. But will Rollo remind them she was given to HIM?





	1. Chapter 1

**Floki did cackle**

* * *

Time ceased to turn as the days became weeks and then months as captive to the Northumbria men. Elspeth hardly recalled home now, pressing it back into the far recesses of her memory. It seemed so distant now, like a dying fire; without prodding the embers soon even the last of its warmth would turn cold. So be it then, she thought. There was no returning now to the Highlands and even if she were able to escape, what was there to go back to? Her people had been slaughtered by the King's men. Her own father, the clan war chief had been beheaded as a pagan heathen unwilling to renounce the gods of old. Recalling now, Elspeth knew the druids had been right in their predictions: The Saxons would be her people's ruin. So here now she sat, bloodied and bruised, and even the gods would not hear her silent prayers.

Eventually Elspeth would be brought before their king, if she made the journey that far. Only the old ones knew what would happen to her then. If the King of Northumbria thought she could be used as a ransom to bring the other Highlanders to their knees he was mistaken. Each clan fought their own battles and she was little more than a competitor in a pathetic game for power. No…once the King realized this; Elspeth might as well be dead where she sat. For what was more rape and harassment to her? Nothing. What was a beating and forced hard labor? Nothing. Death seemed a pleasant escape from the routine she now kept with these men of "God". And they wondered why so many refused to convert to their Christian Jesus.

They were speaking now. Elspeth had given up trying to communicate long ago. Their language was ugly and lifeless and no doubt the words they spoke to her were crude and unwanted. Yet this time they were not speaking to her—no—they were frightened. It was easy enough to see upon their faces, but frightened of what? Part of the young woman did not desire to know. Before she knew what had happened, her frail body was tossed upon the back of a stallion; her bond tightened at the hands, a long chain secured tightly around her torso. This was a measure taken to ensure her breathing would remain limited, so to prevent a fruitful escape.

The descent to the shore from their camp above the rocky cliffs was windy and cold. Elspeth shivered and huddled closer to the rider, despite her hatred for him: the leader of their group. He had been a cruel master and had turned the Celt into his personal whore when she too refused to convert. And now this same man, who so boldly beat her, was shivering in the stirrups. The girl could not help to wonder why? From her tired eyes she peered over an armored shoulder and looked to the coast line. What she saw instilled her both with fear and a false hope.

They were giants compared to any men Elspeth had ever seen before. Crazy eyed and bearded these wildmen seemed the sort not unlike her now dead kin. They carried their weapons and shields no doubt with intent to use and without guilt the young woman prayed the man she was with would find his end by one of the axes. Little did she know her bitter prayers would be answered by the gods.

Elspeth sat in the saddle loosely, watching without much care the transpiring events that she did not understand. What little she recognized were not so much words as familiar noises and her interest was slightly peaked as the leader of the wildmen knew the Sassenach's language. Even with a crude understanding of her captors' native tongue, it was easy for Elspeth to grasp that the Wildman spoke it brokenly. The English seemed frightened. Then something happened that Elspeth did not expect. The wildmen began to argue amongst them. They bantered back and forth in their own tongue, which was just as foreign to her as the other. It wasn't until there was silence that followed when she truly began to fear.

The one who could be conceived as the leader, pointed to a tall man who hovered over him, dark haired and fearsome. He no doubt gave horrible news to the English; Elspeth could have told them these men from the sea weren't here to trade. Nevertheless she knew her captor would offer something in good faith…

Before she could finish her thoughts she was torn from the steed and twisted in pain at the chains. Elspeth cried out and was promptly silenced by a sharp tug on her locks. Her chest burned as she tried to draw in a deep breath and her eyes lost focus as she was planted firmly in front of the tall dark haired man. He towered over her, his eyes like ice piercing her soul. This was it then, she thought. This is where she would die. Surely he would slaughter where she stood. Elspeth closed her eyes and he took hold of her arm...

There was a shout—coming from one of the wild men. A death cry no doubt; she waited for the final blow. It never came, though a searing pain coursed through her breast as her body was thrown aside. Daring not to open to her eyes, she heard the unsheathing of metal and the crashing of sword against shield. Screams of dying men mixed with the hellish blast of rendering flesh. Still, Elspeth refused to see what was taking place. Whichever side came out victorious did little to secure her own safety. The Highlander's life would still be at great risk.

However long they fought one another she did not know, but eventually the cries became silent and the gentle waves of the ocean were once again all that was heard along the coast. Where Elspeth lay in the sand, she could feel the frigid waters rush against her back and hair, carrying out with it the last of her sanity. How desperately she wished with each receding wave that her last breath would be carried with it. Elspeth desired death. There was no higher want than its sweet embrace; to her dismay it was not death's touch that met her arm, but one of the wild men.

As he pulled her to her feet, Elspeth opened her lids and stared back emotionless. The time she had spent with the English had taught her the less emotion you show outward the weaker the effort in causing trouble for her would be. And strangely enough there was no trepidation in her bones when she looked into the face of this man…one she had not seen before. Like the rest he towered over her small frame by nearly a foot and a half—he was different than the others. Matching them for height his hair was neither long nor plaited, and round his eye was black as pitch. The air he carried was one of mischief even though in that particular moment his face was solemn. When he drew a small dagger from his side, Elspeth winced and gave a small whimpering cry which was muffled by the actions he took to ensure her he meant no harm. Like a mother soothing her distraught child this man did coo at her and placed one hand behind her head. With his dagger he did free the lock which bound Elspeth in chains and threw the irons into the sea. He then stepped back into his group of men and left her soaked and shivering before them.

It was the first time Elspeth looked around her person. The dead lay strewn about in fleshy heaps…all English. A horrendous face plastered on the man who had so mercilessly raped her, gave Elspeth a new fire. Perhaps the gods had heard her plea after all. Her mind wandered to the distant past of her father and her kin and how they too once lay dead at her feet. All of it became an empty victory.

"Heill!"

The shout caused a sudden jump; the sharp breath taken in burned her lungs. It came from the one who knew the Sassenach's language. Elspeth stared blankly back at the wild men. She assumed he was attempting to greet her—to no use. They were foolish to think that she understood them, even when he made a second attempt in the tongue of the English. The female among them spoke softly for one so great and tall, Elspeth thought. She was the only one who seemed to grasp that Elspeth knew neither tongue of which the leader spoke. It was a dance among the illiterate which continued for the better half of a quarter of an hour. Finally, it was the man who had broke the lassie's chains that had once again stepped forward.

He still held his dagger in hand, twirling it round in his palm before placing the blade against his breast. His eyes were crazed as he spoke—his lips curling beneath his teeth. "Floki."

It was the only word that passed between them as he continually gestured towards himself.

Growling furiously when Elspeth did not answer, this lanky being whipped around and pointed his dagger in the direction of each of his companions starting with the cat-eyed leader. "Ragnar!" He shouted. Then at the woman, "Lagertha!"

"Eric!" Was the next.

"Rollo!"

He then ran back and hunkered down to Elspeth's height, again his dagger pointed towards himself. "Floki…"

Within a moment the tip of the blade was pointed at her breast as he made an inquisitive sound. It was then Elspeth realized he had given their names and they wished to know hers. She peered over the man called Floki's shoulder and stared at each face with little passion.

The English never knew my name, she thought to herself. Yet then again they never asked. Then again these people attacked my captors without truly trying to communicate before…then again they set me free from my chains… And so the inner battle of 'then again' had persuaded her many times over as she continued to observe these strange people. Outwardly the wild men began to grow anxious.

Ragnar spoke something softly to the fierce one who grunted and stepped forward, thrusting his strength upon Floki to remove his person from their fire-headed stranger. As Rollo gripped her arm once more and raised his axe high above her, Elspeth shook terribly and threw her body to the ground and her arms in the air.

"Elspeth!" She cried, staring down at the pool of blood and sea water that now consumed her. A tower of pride fell then as the grip Rollo had on her was loosened. Elspeth sobbed raising her hand to point to each of the strange men. Like Floki, she recited their names—pointing to each of them, "Ragnar, Lagertha, Eric…" Elspeth looked up at the giant soaring above her as she let his name cascade from her lips. "Rollo…"

Then curling her arms inward her chest caved in and her shoulder's shook. 'Elspeth' rolled off her tongue in agony and her eyes burned from the hot stream of tears that poured down them. From the strangers' point of view, she seemed a baffling idiot.

"Well Ragnar, what do you suppose we do with her?" Floki cocked his head to one side, hunched over like dog begging for scraps.

"Do with her," Rollo turned round, his faced disgusted, "She has lost her wits—if Thor had a hand in blessing her, she would not break so easily."

And so they fought amongst themselves as Ragnar watched and waited to test the opinions of his men. Finally hearing enough, the man who waits and listens turned to his wife. "What do you think wife?"

The shield maiden eyed her husband from the corner of her gaze, and then made contact with each of the men with them. "I think…" she inhaled a deep breath. "That any woman held and raped would fall under the pressure of an axe."

"But if she was touched by Thor—" Rollo began but did not finish, for his sister-in-law spoke sharply.

"Thor does not protect women against the fatalities of war! And why would Frigg not stay her hand against a woman blessed by Thor? How many women do you know that would help a child fathered by a son of her husband's she did not bear?"

Floki raised his brow and nodded in silent agreement.

"I think it is a sign from the gods!" Ragnar's bright smile and sudden input raised all's attention. "I think—we should bring her back with us! Clearly—she is not English—which means she comes from somewhere else—perhaps further west. If this is true, the English are just as clearly her enemy…and who can deny Thor's hand in this? Does she not bear his markings?"

It was Rollo then who stared down at the weeping girl. The color of her hair danced against the blood of the dead; her translucent skin dusted with a thousand freckles. This woman was not of the likes he—nor any of them—had seen before. Though he would never admit it aloud, after forced to stop and think (not an action he did often) it was clear to distinguish that Elspeth was of divine creation. He instantly felt foolish for nearly striking her down. "And what will become of her, should she return with us?"

He ever so slightly turned his head to Ragnar, his little brother, who stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You tell me brother…she was offered to you."

Rollo did not like the mischievous look Ragnar gave him.

Floki did cackle like a crow.


	2. Daughter of Thor

 

**Daughter of Thor**

* * *

 

It had been decided that Elspeth would travel back with them. Such a creature found and freely given to them was not to be taken without care; it was a sign that the gods had blessed and approved of their voyage. So with this in mind, the group had placed few of their men to stand guard of the ship—and keep a close eye on their new companion. To Elspeth it was clear she was neither a prisoner nor a hostage, yet there was also the sense of trepidation—for clearly she was not allowed to leave freely either. This made for an interesting situation; one she could only wait out. Her mind reeled with questions, suspicions, and a growing fear as she watched the strongest disappear over the cliffs and out of sight.

 

As night drew closer the men she had been stationed with had set to build a fire. Once it had been lit and produced well enough heat, she was offered a spot by one of the men who seemed fearful of her. Little did he know she was just as afraid—if not more—and had it not been for her broken body, immensely sore and weak, she more than likely would have stayed close to the shore and suffer the cold night without it. As it was however, she was too weak to argue; seeing as they next offered her food and drink, Elspeth was glad she had not put a fight to it. For once her belly had been filled and her bones warmed by the sweetness of their foreign drink, the Celt had almost forgotten what it was to be a slave. These wild men—wherever they had come from—couldn’t possibly understand what a kindness they had done for her.

 

The youngest of the three which had been left behind, had draped a fur over her wretched body and then filled her glass with more mead, to which she consumed rapidly. Elspeth had never tasted anything quite so delicious in all her life. Fermented honey ale with a high potency was just the kind of release she needed; a good way to forget what had been done to her. Of course the details still laid buried in her mind and at the end of it all, she still had no home to go back to—never mind the fact that she was not exactly free to leave anyway. Her mind began to dance with all those painful memories—every ounce of torture she had undergone. Staring down into the dark pool of liquid in her hand, inwardly she told herself to be still; wait and listen. Just like with the English there had been no point in pondering anything but the moment at hand. The truth of it was these men had not forced their way into her body and for what she could understand—through lack of communication—was that they had fed her, offered her drink, and most importantly warmth. For these things she was bound to do what she could for them in return. This meant for the time being she would stay put and not try her hand at leaving. One of the men smiled at her and raised a hand in friendship. Perhaps he had seen the troubled look on her face? For the first time, Elspeth spoke—even fully aware that they did not understand her. To the Northmen, it may have sounded something like this.

 

“Mòran taing.” It was her language for thank you.

 

She then looked down to her cup and gave a sigh, staring up into the sky before drinking deeply and finishing it off. “Tha sin glè mhath.” She whispered to them—telling them the drink she had was very good.

 

The men stared at her with awe, one holding his own cup of mead, the other mid-bite on a piece of fish. Within a moment her glass was filled again; her company raising their glasses towards her. One whispered something—a toast perhaps—before drinking deeply and holding his cup to her so she might drink well with them. Elspeth complied by draining yet another glass.

 

By this time her fingers and toes became tingly, her face burning red. It was the most pleasant feeling, her drunkenness. For in it she found peace and the lack of ability to dwell on much more than what was in front of her. Neither the English nor the man who had nearly killed her was on her conscious now, only the smiling faces of those before her. Within a moments time they began to freely speak with one another—of course not understanding a word—yet nonetheless it was a pleasant time. Whether what was being conversed was serious or not on the end of her companions, Elspeth enjoyed ranting about the most idiotic things and not having a care in the world. As far as releases from the cruelty of life goes—this was one of the best.

 

Time seemed to pass as quickly as the night drew closer to its end. By this time Elspeth could no longer speak—the drink taken it full effect on her. The fire danced fiercely and she found herself burning in its heat. A belly full and a tired body soon had her dozing to the sounds of crackling firewood and the soft rush of the ocean. One of the three men had already passed out in a heap next to a sleeping pelt, while the other two spoke in hushed tones. In one of her last conscious thoughts, the Highlander pondered the men that had left them hours ago and where they may have gone and when they would return. She hoped to see the one called Ragnar again, for it was he whom Elspeth found to be the basis behind the lot of them being there. Perhaps she could find a way to communicate with him—if he had been clever enough to learn the Sassenach’s speech. This was the last thing she thought of before tiredness took her and she fell into a sleep of which she dreamt peacefully.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rollo sat propped against a tree, overlooking the village Ragnar had led them to. The entirety of their men had sprawled out across the tree line, waiting for the following morning of a Sunday. Ragnar had promised them they would find the significance of this day on the morrow, but had Rollo been completely honest, Sunday was the last thing on his mind. First and foremost was the fire headed woman now back at the ships and who and where she came from?

 

In his youth much the same as his brother, Rollo had heard tell of stories regarding the peoples of the west. How they worshiped one god and their strange and new ways of thinking. However Elspeth was not like the men he had seen thus far, nor the woman he watched down in the village earlier in the day. She did not cover her head with scarves and hats, nor did she dress in the gowns or dresses he now had come to assume all English women adorned. No…this Elspeth wore a garment of plaid—deep green and blue, fastened by a corset of leather—fashioned by way of armor. Clearly it had seen better days, but all the same it rang true to one fine fact: it was the attire of a warrior. So why then had she hunkered down in fear of him when he raised his axe to her? Better yet a question to ponder was why she had been a prisoner at all. Wouldn’t one rather die free than suffer the embarrassment of being some Christian’s whore?

 

“She is on your mind too, Rollo?” The voice of Floki rang out in the darkness.

 

“Go to sleep,” Rollo spoke dryly, not wanting a conversation with the man.

 

However Floki was not one to take any hints and pressed the subject further. “What a gift from Odin she must be—and what makes you so special that she might have been offered to you, Rollo Lothbrok?”

 

Rollo growled lowly, his patience wearing thin. “I said go to sleep, boat maker.”

 

When Floki did not answer to his threat, Rollo exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. To his dismay all he could see was the color of fire and skin sprawled and painted with a thousand freckles.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Elspeth screamed.

 

She screamed and cried in agony as a new group of English forced their way into her. Two of the three men Ragnar had left behind with them had died, the third detained in chains, unable to do a thing for the woman at their attackers mercy. They cut open her corset, slicing her breasts to expose the tender flesh. The one who had pinned himself behind her drew his knees against the back of hers to keep her still. Once secured he forced himself inside her most sacred place and when Elspeth had finally given up and began to silently cry with each thrust, the man did lick them from her face. And so they did this to her until the lot of them had their fill and then they did leave her lay in the sand—bloody and broken. One of them had even urinated upon her body, spitting down upon her head when he had finished.

 

They had come in the early morning hours unbeknownst to any of them. Caught off guard, the drink having done its cruel purpose on them, Ragnar’s men were slow to their feet. In an instant they were bombarded and Elspeth was sure one of them would have offered her a weapon; to her dismay they did not and she stared helpless as two of them had fallen within moments. The English had with them an archer, which made short work of them. It was after this that they had set to work dishonoring the Celt.

 

Now having been pillaged and used, the English were preoccupied with the task of searching the ships, the Northman who still lived had inched his way to Elspeth who lay curled into a ball by the dead fire. He examined the girl as best he could with his eyes. What he saw made his stomach turn—for even his own kind never left a creature to suffer after the fatalities of war before them.

 

“Allfather,” he whispered above her. “Give this child a moment to regain honor. Give her the strength your son Thor bestowed on her…give her a chance to enter Valhalla and take to hell these believers of a false god.”

 

The girl of course did not understand a word. Elspeth had only comprehended the pain she was in and the soreness of her innards. She had no reason to think that she would ever make it off the shoreline, let alone come to find the strength or dignity to stand again. Her womanhood had been made a mockery—she clutched her chest—what was left of it—a fleshy heap of torn and scarred flesh. They had taken from her left breast the nipple and from her right they had bitten down so hard that blood had been drawn. All she could do was sob until no breath went in or out of her lungs. She cursed the English. She cursed King Aelle. She cursed the whole of England.

 

Somewhere in the distance the sky turned gray—a roll of thunder breaking off into the sky. Thor had heard his child suffering. He was not pleased.

 

 

“Ragnar!” The voice of her companion rang clear through to her ears, even if she did not have the strength to lift her head to the cliffs.

 

So they had returned from wherever they had gone, moments too late to save anyone. Elspeth however did not blame Ragnar; for he was not her protector…it was not his duty to keep her safe. Consumed with the notion that this was her final hour, her only comfort was found in knowing the wild men would end the English. At least her suffering and the death of his men would be avenged. At least her curse upon these men would come to fruition.

 

Once again she was face down in the sand, unwilling to watch the battle which took place between the two companies. This one was shorter than the last, for this time the English had been the ones taken by surprise. And once they lay dismembered upon the sandy beach, Elspeth felt a soft hand rest upon her exposed back. She heard the voice of Floki—a voice she would not soon forget. There was also Lagertha. Hers was the one who commanded now.

 

“By the gods…” Lagertha threw her shield to the ground, looking around to the men closest to her. “Floki, help me move her inland...”

 

Floki—whose eyes were laden with tears, for the sake of the child of his god Thor, knelt down and draped a blanket over her naked body. He then gently plucked her from the sands, carrying her beneath the cliffs while Lagertha gathered what supplies were left in tact from one of the ships. He stared down at this child of fire and gold and whispered something inaudible into her ear. Elspeth was too tired to fight their efforts.

 

“What happened here?” It was now the voice of Ragnar, speaking to the one man who lived from the onslaught.

 

“They ambushed us with arrows…I am not proud to say we did not come out victorious Ragnar.” He apologized. “And then…” The two men watched as Floki laid the girl near them, his eyes burning with pity and rage. “I’ve never seen the likes of the torture they inflicted upon her Ragnar…I’ve never seen anyone take such humiliation lying down.”

 

Rollo looked down at the girl disgusted. “Which is another reason why I say we have been fooled—she is no child of the gods.”

 

Thunder rolled across the sky, as the rain had finally reached them.

 

“Say it again then Rollo,” Floki grabbed a skin of water, letting it fall over Elspeth face to clean away the blood. “Do you not hear her father’s mourning?”

 

Lagertha had made her way back to them, pushing aside the group of onlookers and taking the water skin from Floki’s hand. “I will take it from here, Floki. She has had the hands of men on her for too long. She requires the touch of a woman now.”

 

“You are wasting your time, Lagertha.” Rollo warned. “She would never make the trip back to Kattegat.”

 

Ragnar looked to the prisoner they had taken from the English and then to his brother. “Unfortunately we do not have a choice, brother. With the death of Konut we need a replacement—to bade our good favors with the Earl.”

 

“You plan to give this wretched being to him? In good faith? You yourself said she was given to me.”

 

The younger of the brother’s stared blankly—but not without dormant rage—at his elder. “You speak of her only with contempt. Surely you would not be missing much if you gave such a worthless girl to the Earl, eh?”

 

Rollo could say nothing to this.

 

They set to work digging a shallow pit for the bodies of the English, a task Elspeth did not understand from where she sat. She watched in silence as the men did this—all while Lagertha tended to her wounds. The two of them did not speak and aside from the sharp breaths of pain that escaped her, all was silent. Lagertha’s features were some of disgust and pity at the condition of Elspeth and horror at what they had done to her no doubt once beautiful figure. Once her face and breasts had been cleaned and bandaged, Lagertha wife of Ragnar lifted Elspeth’s skirts hesitantly and bowed her head in repugnance. Bruises danced across her legs, bite marks the colors of purple and black bled near her entrance.

 

“The work of monsters,” She whispered, knowing full well Elspeth did not understand her. However if the girl could hear in her voice the care she would take in mending her, Lagertha thought it worth trying. “This will be uncomfortable…I know you’d rather not have anything within you now…but this,” She held up a cotton bag filled with herbs. “Will help stop the bleeding and give you relief from pain.”

 

Elspeth nodded, knowing exactly what was to happen. Many of her own people—women specifically—used similar forms of herbs to aid a healing body after childbirth.

 

“Ready?” The blonde woman whispered gently, prying Elspeth’s opening and gently placing the packet inside her. The Celt whimpered as tears rolled down her cheeks, but never once did she cry out. Lagertha smiled bitterly. “Can you see Ragnar from here?” She pointed to their right where her husband crouched beside their captive. “He is avenging you and our fallen.”

 

Elspeth swallowed hard and turned her head to watch the events unfold. Floki and Rollo were beside Ragnar, who spoke lowly to the Englishman. A sense of completion filled her when she saw Ragnar cut the man’s throat and let his body drop into the pit. Tears rolled down her face as she smiled.

 

Lightning danced across the sky and the thunder boomed with a mighty force.

 

“Your father is pleased,” Lagertha shared her smile. “You will find peace in Kattegat, Elspeth…I am sure of it.”

 

Elspeth knew nothing of what was being said to her, but somewhere in her being she knew it would not be long before she was off the shores of England.

 

From where Rollo stood he watched the two women as the sky crackled and thundered. It had all happened the moment the English had been silenced. This woman…this creature…something was most certainly brewing with her presence. What however, Rollo Lothbrok did not yet comprehend. 

 


End file.
